Hands Across the Table
by diopann
Summary: Dean Martin songs bring forth the golden light of a neapolitan day spent with Caesar. In the corner of the sunlight flooded room the needle dances on the record as it spins.
It was some time after Christmas that he and Suzie watched _Some Came Running_ in the city. He'd barely paid attention to Martin, who was of course impeccable as Dillert the gambler, because he'd been moved by Shirley McLane as if he knew _The Apartment_ , which was to be released in two years, would mark his life as it did. By New Year's, on a foray of his own into downtown Manhattan, he entered a record store while idle, waiting for someone or other, and found _This is Dean Martin!_ on sale. Once home, he played it in the living room, and Suzie and him immediately danced to _Volare_ while Holly watched. Once _Write to Me From Naples_ started playing though, softly, the rhythm changed, they sat, Holly on his knees, and thought about Caesar. It took Joseph around two seconds to think of sending Caesar the vinyl by mail as the kind of message that was so obvious Caesar'd probably have a hard time understanding it. He'd also not write out of spite.

It isn't until the summer _The Apartment_ comes out—Joseph finds himself crying like a child in the theatre, Suzie's hand rubbing his back tirelessly—that the vinyl finally makes its way to Naples. Joseph's still crying over Bud and Fran and everything in between when he asks his travel agent to get him the tickets.

Caesar greets him in Capodichino, the relief to find him still alive after the flight almost palpable in the air, expertly—but not to Joseph's eyes—hidden in his handsome young face (unfair, unfair, that he continues his training, and looks not a day over twenty). At his place, of course, Joseph forgets the LP in his bag until later, when Caesar's put the moka on the stove and the scent of toasted coffee reaches Joseph's nose inside the warmth of shared bedsheets. It's that smell which makes him remember, so he gets the LP and walks into the living room immediately with it held close to his chest, like notebooks at school or prayerbooks at church. Caesar, of course, forces him to go back into the room and put some damn pants on, which he does almost bregrudgingly, almost only because he knows Caesar's capable of holding up a bad mood for days on end.

In the corner of the sunlight flooded room the needle dances on the record as it spins. Caesar blows smoke, tells him he's right, he wouldn't have written, out of spite, if he'd sent it. And not to expect anything. Joseph knows he'll write more often now, regardless.

It takes them two days to play the B side. They walk through the city, arms linked, pretend its not impossibly humid when they go down Mergellina and even the hairs on his arms curl up. They look out onto the sea and Joseph tries to make out the place where lies the underwater roman city they swam to years ago, after everything, even the war, was over. He kisses Caesar under Dante's nose and expects Caesar to embarrassedly push him away, but he tightens his hold. Afterwards he jokes about how people probably think he uses Joseph for his money, and Joseph irritatedly tells him to stop trying to look so young.

'Who're you tryin' to trick, huh? Some signorinas?'

'Signorine, ya giant idiot. How many times do I hafta tell ya?'

'So it's true!'

They wake up late because of the humid heat, tangled in bedsheets, Joseph always some minutes later, when the scent of coffee comes from the kitchen, mingled with smoke. During evenings they take turns to talk to Suzie and complain about the other's behaviour and she laughs in ways more beautiful than Joseph thinks she does when it's just them. Maybe he's the same.

When he finally turns the record over and Buona Sera, his favourite, plays, he sings along, definitely not off key, he's sure.

'Buonasera, signorina, buonasera it is time to say good night to Napoli, though it's hard for us to whisper buonasera with that old moon above the Mediterranean sea…'

He wishes, he knows, Caesar will understand the many things he means, the many things Dean Martin sings in his stead, walking neapolitan streets, lingering by shops where their linked futures come into play, dreams and fantasies, of course, crooner romanticism and myth.

'Buonasera, signorina, kiss me good night,' Martin and Joseph finish.

Caesar puts out his cigarette carefully in the ashtray and then clocks Joseph on the back of the head.

'What the hell, Caesar?!'

Caesar lights another cigarette, looks so calm and solemn it makes Joseph murderous.

'What the fuck was that for?!'

'Stupid! Buonasera doesn't mean good night! How many hours wasted tryin'a teach ya italian, and for what?'

'What? That's your problem? You're a brute! This is a song, this is art!'

'Art? What d'you even know about art, ya big caveman, unrefined country bumpkin!' he slaps Joseph over the head again, but Joseph's faster, catches his hand, their fingers linked together, and then they laugh loudly until their lips are too close and when Caesar whispers 'brute' they brush against each other and then over and over.


End file.
